


The Bottom Third of the Door Handle

by astudyinrose



Series: The Pilotverse [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, First Kiss, Frottage, Hand Jobs, M/M, Pilot!Universe, pilot AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-28
Updated: 2014-07-28
Packaged: 2018-02-10 18:06:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2034852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astudyinrose/pseuds/astudyinrose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Pilot!John and Pilot!Sherlock leave the final crime scene in the unaired pilot of Sherlock, they go to the Chinese restaurant nearby, and... that's pretty much all you need to know.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Bottom Third of the Door Handle

**Author's Note:**

> For [Nolwenn](shinka.tumblr.com), who requested this fic. Ask and ye shall receive :)
> 
> Thanks to [Erin](bookaddled.tumblr.com) for being a fantastic beta as usual.
> 
> This is meant to take place directly after the final scene in the unaired pilot of Sherlock. If you haven’t watched the pilot, there were some differences in detail, setting, and clothing that I have included here, so what you think may have been a mistake (Sherlock is wearing jeans, or that the cabbie was shot in 221B, for example) was actually deliberate.

 

“Dinner?” 

“Starving.”

Sherlock’s lips slid upward into a radiant smile, and something like hope twisted in John’s stomach. He tried not to grin too widely in return.

Sherlock quickly sidestepped Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson, apparently wanting to get away from other people as much as John did. They walked the short distance to a hole-in-the-wall Chinese restaurant, their bodies close enough together that Sherlock’s coat brushed against John’s legs periodically.

They were seated in an alcove on the far end of the restaurant, mostly hidden from sight. Despite his calm exterior, John was still slightly jittery from the adrenaline rush, so he was secretly glad that they would be away from prying eyes. They sat down together, and the only way that Sherlock could keep his long legs underneath the small table was to have one of his knees slightly between John’s. John pressed his lips together, trying not to think about that too much. 

Sherlock waved away the menus, ordering a few dishes and wine. After the waiter had whisked away, Sherlock leaned over the table, his elbows resting on the cracked linoleum. For a moment he simply looked down at his clasped hands, biting his lip, then he glanced up at John.

The mood between them had shifted immeasurably since they were at Angelo’s only hours before. There, Sherlock had seemed distracted, constantly looking in the mirror for the cabbie, his legs bouncing in anticipation. If John hadn’t known better, he would have thought that Sherlock was a junkie waiting for a fix. 

Now Sherlock was all smooth lines and casual poise, as if being finished with the case automatically flipped a switch in his demeanor. For the first time since they’d been in the lab, John was being subjected to the full focus of a Sherlockian gaze. It was like being x-rayed: every detail of who he was and what he was thinking was laid out bare. Those brilliant eyes-- _what colour were they, anyway_?-- flicked down to John’s hands, then slowly back up to somewhere near his mouth. He could only wonder what Sherlock was searching for, since he’d deduced John's whole life story within approximately ninety seconds of meeting him.

Sherlock met his eyes again, and his luscious lips slid upward into a grin. John somehow knew that it was a genuine smile, a rare one, and that it was reserved only for him.

John couldn’t help but let his lips curl upward as well, until they were grinning at each other like… well, like idiots. 

He realized that they hadn’t said a word since they’d been seated, but somehow, it was as if they’d had a whole conversation. Was this how Sherlock was with everyone? John had certainly never experienced anything like it. It was like they were connected already, able to communicate without words. He barely knew this man, and yet it was as if he’d known him his entire life.

More than that, there was a pulsing connection between them that went beyond the intellectual and well into the physical, and he was more than a little aroused already. The air crackled between them with a vibrating energy.

 _The game is on, indeed._  

John was about to say something when their food and wine arrived, breaking the tension like snapping a thread in half. John realized that they’d both been leaning over the table until they were mere centimeters apart, and they both had to sit back (reluctantly, at least on his part) to allow the food to be put down.

Even though their “dinner” at Angelo’s hadn’t been that long ago, John found that he was ravenous. He should have found it strange, since he hadn’t really had an appetite since he had been shot, but that was Before.

In the past few months, his mindset had shifted into Before and After. Until quite recently, “Before” had referred to before he was shot, before life as he knew it-- as a soldier and doctor, as a man who could stare down the barrel of a gun without his hands shaking-- had ended in blood and blinding pain. Now, his life seemed to be divided yet again: that is, Before and After he had met Sherlock Holmes.

John glanced at Sherlock again as he took a sip of wine. Sherlock was tucking into his food as if he’d never eaten before in his life. He looked like he didn’t usually eat much, anyway, if his trim waist was any indication. His slightly-boyish curls were still mussed from his tussle with the cabbie, and his pearly skin accented the pink of his cupid’s bow lips. He looked positively delectable, and completely unattainable. 

Sherlock looked up at him questioningly, his mouth full of lo mein. He must have seen something in John’s gaze, because both of his eyebrows rose almost to his hairline. 

“Problem?” Sherlock prompted bluntly. 

John licked his lips, glancing around to make sure that no one was within earshot. “How did you know?” he asked quietly.

“I didn’t know, I saw.” Sherlock said, wiping his mouth with his serviette.

“You don’t even know what I was asking.”

“I’m assuming you weren’t asking how I knew where to find a decent Chinese restaurant, so it must be how I knew that you shot the cabbie. It was rather obvious. It was through a window, in the dark, from across the street. The shooter was confident enough in his aim to shoot the cabbie even though he was directly in front of me, when he could easily have shot us both by accident. His hands must not have shaken, so it had to have been someone who is accustomed to violence, which indicates recent military experience. He also waited until I was in imminent danger to pull the trigger, which indicates a strong moral principle. So, a crack shot, nerves of steel, recently in the military. Then I saw you standing nearby. I wasn't a grand leap.” Sherlock spoke softly yet succinctly, as if he had rehearsed this speech beforehand.  

John looked around furtively. “Okay, I didn’t actually want you to--”

“Relax, John,” Sherlock said, taking a sip from his glass. “No one heard me.”

“Right… right.” John twiddled his chopsticks. There was another pregnant pause, as John wasn’t sure how to bring up the elephant in the room. He couldn’t stop thinking about the way Sherlock had looked at him just minutes earlier, the way his chest had expanded and it had felt like something inside of him had clicked into place. How could you possibly ask someone if they felt something like that as well, especially when you’d been shot down only hours earlier? 

His tentative efforts to pull Sherlock at Angelo’s had been awkward at best, and his new flatmate had quickly brought them to a screeching halt. John had tried to clamp down on the disappointment rising in his stomach while muttering feeble protests, but Sherlock had surely seen through it. The man wasn’t interested, and he’d made that rather clear. 

He should just let what they were now settle into something more sustainable. If there was one thing John knew for certain, it was that he wanted this man in his life, despite the fact that they’d only known each other for a couple of days. He shouldn’t risk losing that over… whatever it was he thought he was feeling. 

John had just about convinced himself to let it lie when Sherlock moved his leg just the slightest bit to rest against John's. At first John thought it was a mistake, but Sherlock didn’t excuse himself or move his leg back. 

John slowly raised his gaze to look at Sherlock, but he continued to eat as if nothing had happened. 

A good ten seconds ticked by, and Sherlock still hadn’t moved his leg. In fact, John felt the toe of Sherlock’s shoe run up the curve of John’s calf.

John’s eyes widened. “Sherlock, what are you doing?” he asked quietly.

“I believe I’m eating dinner." 

“You know what I’m talking about.”

“Use your not-completely-mediocre intelligence and figure it out,” Sherlock quipped, meeting John’s eyes.

They looked at each other for a long moment. “What about the whole ‘not my area’ speech?” John asked hoarsely.  

“I said _girlfriends_ were not my area, John. Make the deduction, it’s not a difficult one.”

John opened his mouth and closed it, not entirely sure what to say. “So you’re…” 

“Obviously,” Sherlock interrupted, rolling his eyes. “And you are bisexual, though most of your previous long-term relationships have been with women. That is, unless you count a closeted and furtive affair with another officer during one of your tours… who may have even been your superior.”

John flushed. “How could you possibly know about James?” he muttered.

“I told you, I don’t know. I see.”

"But you said that you were married to your work, and that you weren’t looking for anything,” John pointed out.

“We were on a case. I couldn’t afford a distraction, and neither could you. Besides, I wasn’t _looking_ for anything.” Sherlock averted his eyes, picking up his chopsticks again and pressing his lips together. 

John tilted his head, his eyes flicking over Sherlock objectively-- well, as objectively as he could with Sherlock's leg burning a metaphorical hole in the side of his jeans. For the first time in the whirlwind couple of days since he had met this enigmatic man, John realized that Sherlock wasn't all he seemed. In fact, considering the way he wasn’t quite looking at John and he was twiddling his utensils… could he actually be _nervous_? 

John felt his throat constrict. Beneath that suave, posh, haughty exterior, maybe, just maybe, Sherlock wanted John just as desperately as John wanted him. The way he had brushed off John’s advances earlier may have been no more than a defense mechanism.

John licked his lips again. They hadn’t crossed a line yet. They could step back from this and laugh it off, pretend nothing had happened-- just be friends, flatmates, partners. He felt a jolt a despair in the pit of his stomach at the mere thought.  

Before he could think himself out of it, John shifted forward and nudged his leg further between Sherlock’s knees.

Sherlock stilled immediately, his eyes widening, but he didn’t look up. John tried not to smirk as he moved his knee upward, just enough to cause friction against the hardening erection in Sherlock’s trousers.

Sherlock dropped his chopsticks, and they clattered loudly against his plate. John added a bit more pressure, relishing the look on Sherlock’s face.

“John,” Sherlock breathed, letting out a puff of air, which would have been almost a moan if he had put any force behind it. The sound of that silky voice saying _his_ name like _that_ went straight to John's cock. Sherlock gripped the table with one hand, and the back of his other hand brushed against John’s. Just those two small points of contact were enough to make John’s blood pound in his ears. 

Sherlock’s gaze now held him entranced. His eyes were ravenous, the pupils wide and dark, and his lips were just slightly parted. He seemed to be breathing more erratically than just a moment before.  

“Shit,” John cursed under his breath, feeling himself flush deeply. He was suddenly extremely aware that they were in a public place, for all that they were more or less hidden from sight at the moment. Neither of them moved for several seconds, and John was sure that the handful of people in the restaurant could hear his heart pounding frantically. 

Sherlock reached under the table, pushing John’s knee backward. John flushed even more, if that was possible. Perfect, he was being rejected… again. 

As if he could read John’s mind, Sherlock shook his head infinitesimally. “No. Not that. Just… not here.” Sherlock’s eyes flicked down to John’s mouth again, and he licked his lips. 

“Where?” John asked, his voice much more gravelly than usual. 

Sherlock stood in one swift motion. “Baker street,” he said in a clipped tone. 

“Isn’t it still a crime scene?” John took out his wallet and threw far too much money on the table. 

Sherlock was wrapping himself in his Belstaff when he froze. His jaw tightened, and he took out his phone, thumbing a number in his contacts.

“Lestrade,” he said in a clipped tone, starting to walk out of the restaurant. “Get your men out of my flat.”

Lestrade said something on the other side of the line, and Sherlock scowled as he shouldered the door open.

“You’ve certainly removed the body by now. You will be able to find whatever it is you need tomorrow--" 

Lestrade interrupted him, speaking quickly. Sherlock, who had started pacing back and forth in front of the restaurant, paused for another second, glancing at John. “Very well. I promise not to go into the salon until tomorrow, with your supervision." 

The voice on the other end of the line sounded almost smug as the inspector said something else.

Sherlock closed his eyes, looking slightly pained. “Fine. I’ll assist with five cases below a seven if you’ll do this for me. Is that all?” 

Lestrade said something brief, and Sherlock opened his eyes again, nodding slightly.

“Fifteen minutes.” He hung up, putting his phone back in his pocket.

“Fifteen minutes?” John said breathlessly. He didn’t know if he could possibly wait that long. 

“Yes,” Sherlock said, his mouth quirking upward slightly. “Whatever can we do for fifteen minutes?”

“I have a few ideas,” John said, stepping closer.

Sherlock bit his bottom lip, but he didn't move back. John was on the verge of reaching up to touch Sherlock’s face when the other man glanced around, grabbing John by the elbow and pulling him toward a small alley to the side of the restaurant. He strode forward until they were hidden behind some large dustbins.

“If you don’t kiss me right now, I--” John growled, but then he was being crowded up against the alley wall and Sherlock was everywhere-- his mouth, his hands, his lanky body pressed against John.  

“Fuck,” John panted, his hands sneaking under the folds of Sherlock’s coat to pull him closer. As their tongues tangled together, the culmination of all the anticipation that had been building for the past several hours causing his head to spin. He tilted his hips upward, pressing harder against Sherlock’s pelvis, and the amount of friction between their clothed bodies was glorious and at the same time not even close to being enough. He needed more. 

John switched their positions in one fluid motion, pressing the other man up against the wall and slotting his leg between Sherlock's. He went on the offensive, pressing his tongue into that hot and delicious mouth he’d been fantasizing about for what seemed like years.

“John,” Sherlock moaned, his hands sliding down to grip John’s arse shamelessly. 

“You’re fantastic, you know that?” John whispered into his skin, moving his knee upward again, and Sherlock moaned even more loudly. 

John clamped his hand over Sherlock’s mouth, glancing back down the alley, but no one on the street seemed to have heard. He glanced back at Sherlock, who was panting heavily, and leaned inward to whisper into his ear.

“You like that, do you? When I call you amazing?” 

Sherlock just whimpered in response, as John’s hand was still covering his mouth. John chuckled.

“I thought so,” he said, moving his knee back so that he could palm Sherlock through his jeans. He threaded his other hand through Sherlock’s dark hair, pulling him down and kissing him slowly, but with all the same fervor as before.

Time passed, to be sure, but nothing else seemed to matter. He didn’t care about coming up for air, or that they might be caught-- though this was rather innocent, considering what he would rather be doing at this moment.

John sucked over Sherlock’s pulse, and the other man hissed through his teeth.

“We’d better stop,” John said, leaving open-mouthed kisses under Sherlock’s jaw. “Or I might have you right here in the alley, and we’ll be arrested for public indecency.”

“That would not be advisable, as you still have powder burns on your hands,” Sherlock said breathlessly, his voice a ghost of its normal matter-of-fact tone. 

John grinned, straightening up to look at the other man. In the dim light, he looked positively debauched; his hair was mussed spectacularly, his lips reddened from snogging, and his skin flushed. 

“Has it been fifteen minutes?” John asked, brushing his fingertips over Sherlock’s swollen lips.

“Close enough,” Sherlock said. Neither of them moved for a long second, until John finally stepped back, adjusting the tightness in his jeans slightly. Sherlock was still slumped against the wall, looking disheveled, and John stifled another chuckle. Sherlock pushed himself up, pulling his coat around himself more closely, and they didn’t look at each other as they wordlessly walked down the alley and out into the street.

It wasn't that far back to the flat, but for some reason it felt interminable. They strode in silence, close enough that their hands brushed slightly as they walked, which caused every hair on the back of John’s neck to stand on end. He was certain that every single person they passed was aware of what they’d just been doing-- and what they were rushing off to do-- just as clearly as if he’d had a scarlet letter painted on his chest. 

John realized fleetingly that he should be thinking about what this would mean, and how it could ruin one of the best things that had happened to him in a long time. Was it just a quick shag to relieve the tension? Would Sherlock want more? He should be trying to talk to Sherlock about this… but he wanted it too much. In fact, he couldn't remember _ever_ wanting someone this much. 

As Baker Street finally came into view, John noted with surprise that none of the police cars from only a couple of hours earlier were still there. Apparently Lestrade had stayed true to his word. 

Striding directly up to the door, Sherlock ripped off the crime scene tape. As he fumbled a bit with the keys, John chuckled lightly, feeling giddy with excitement and anticipation. Sherlock finally got the door unlocked and shouldered it open.

John pushed the door shut behind him, and Sherlock immediately captured John’s lips in another deep kiss, pressing him up against the door.  

John gripped his arms, trying not to moan as Mrs. Hudson was probably just across the hall. “Upstairs,” John mumbled against his lips.

“Mmm,” Sherlock hummed, his tongue too engaged in other activities to form words.

John took the initiative, pushing him forward until Sherlock’s calves hit the first steps. They would have toppled over if John hadn’t grabbed Sherlock’s collar and held him upright, but the force of it broke the kiss. Their gazes locked, and both of them were panting with arousal. 

“Upstairs, now,” John growled, and Sherlock’s eyes widened even further as he turned and took the stairs two at a time up to the first floor, pulling off his coat as he went. John followed suit, trying not to let his gaze linger on that arse too much as he pulled off his own jacket. It wasn’t that long ago that he had been limping up these stairs with his cane, and now he was sprinting after a lithe detective several years his junior.  

Once they reached the landing, Sherlock put his coat on the hook and John simply discarded his own on the floor. He pushed Sherlock up against the wall, unable to keep his hands off him a moment longer. 

“Still not in the flat,” Sherlock panted as he untucked John’s shirt and ran his slender fingers up the small of John’s back. 

“Don’t care.” John fisted his hands in Sherlock’s hair, pulling him down to plunder his mouth ravenously. 

John had been told-- by multiple people-- that he was an excellent kisser, but kissing Sherlock was like a whole new level of snogging. Every time John did something Sherlock liked, he was rewarded with him arching slightly into John's hips or making small whimpers of pleasure, until they were both straining uncomfortably against their trousers. 

Without warning, Sherlock switched their positions, pressing John against the wall as he had against the door. He slotted his leg between John’s thighs and lifted slightly, pressing directly against John’s erection as he nipped John’s bottom lip.  

“Fuck,” John cursed again. 

“Maybe later,” Sherlock breathed, undoing the rest of the buttons on John’s shirt and peeling it off his shoulders. 

John’s eyes snapped open. “Don’t--" 

Sherlock was already looking at his scar, which had healed over but wasn’t quite the color of an old scar yet. As he ran his fingertips over the ravaged skin, Sherlock’s eyes flicked upward, but there wasn’t pity in his gaze. Nor was there the kind of tentativeness that almost everyone else seemed to look at John with these days. Instead, there was a hint of fascination, as if John were the most interesting thing he had ever seen, and even a slice of hard-edged pride. 

Before John could say something else, Sherlock bent to kiss the scar. John closed his eyes, letting his head fall back to rest against the wall, as he felt that tongue flick against his skin. 

Sherlock’s hands slid down John’s torso to his belt, starting to work it open. His lips caressed the scar once more, then he went down onto his knees. 

“You don't have to--” John gasped, as Sherlock made quick work of his jeans.

“Oh, but I do. I really, really do,” Sherlock said, kissing the damp spot on John’s pants as he pushed the jeans to the floor. The feeling of that mouth so close to his cock was enough to make John lose the power of speech, so he gave up protesting.

Sherlock peeled John’s pants down slowly, as if he was savoring it, until John’s cock was freed. Taking him by the base, Sherlock kissed the top daintily then sucked all the way down to the bottom in one long pull. Gasping, John felt his knees buckle at the sensation of being engulfed in the hot, wet heat. 

“Jesus, Sherlock,” John said hoarsely, his hand flying to Sherlock’s hair automatically, but he immediately dropped it again.  

Sherlock glanced up and tugged his hand, giving permission. Exhaling deeply, John threaded his hand through the dark curls, not pulling, just holding. 

He almost couldn’t stand the sight of those lips closed around his cock as Sherlock bobbed up and down, their gazes still locked. He alternated long pulls with light bobs, sucking the top and swirling his tongue around the head as he stroked John’s base with one hand. It was as if Sherlock were some kind of chameleon, observing John’s reactions and evolving his technique simultaneously until he was doing exactly what John wanted-- and some things he’d never known he could want. 

John tried not to make too much noise, but he still let out stifled moans that were only egged on by small sounds of satisfaction he heard Sherlock making periodically.  

Sherlock changed tactics and was now doing something unbelievably clever with his tongue that didn’t involve deductions or insults, and John’s toes were curling with the effort of not crying out. He was already dangerously close to coming, mostly because the last day had been like one agonizingly long bout of foreplay. Pushing every ounce of willpower, he lifted Sherlock’s head a bit.  

“Don’t… want to come yet,” he managed to gasp. Sherlock looked up at him in surprise, licking his reddened lips.  

“Jesus,” John groaned, pulling him up to his feet and kissing him again. He tasted the slight tang of himself on Sherlock’s lips, which was pretty much the sexiest thing ever. He moved his hands down to start unbuttoning Sherlock’s jeans, and as his fingers brushed Sherlock’s erection through his pants, he whimpered again. 

John smiled against his mouth, pushing Sherlock’s jeans down until he could kick them off. 

“We should probably move to the bedroom,” Sherlock said huskily, arching into the contact as John palmed his erection.

“God, yes,” he breathed, pulling Sherlock backward down the hall. He kicked open the door with the back of his foot, ripping off Sherlock’s shirt at the same time. When his legs hit the back of the bed he sat down, pulling Sherlock more or less onto his lap with one knee on each side. Sherlock still had his pants on, but now their cocks were pressed up against each other with nothing more than a thin amount of fabric between them. 

Up until now, there had been a sort of frantic urgency behind their movements, but now John wanted to slow down, make it last. He leaned in to run his tongue over one of Sherlock’s nipples, teasing it until it hardened. At the same time he slid his hands up the other man’s back, feeling the hard edges and broad planes that he so enjoyed in another man’s body. 

He could feel Sherlock’s fingernails running over his scalp, his breath coming out in shorter bursts, as John teased the other nipple. Sherlock started rocking slightly against him, his erection thrusting against John’s cock just the slightest bit.  

John smiled as he ran his hand down Sherlock’s stomach to his black pants, skimming his fingers over the fabric. Sherlock’s eyes fell closed as John pulled the pants down just enough to be able to take Sherlock’s cock, running his hand up it once in a long pull. 

Sherlock’s eyes snapped open, full of arousal and something almost like yearning. He reached down to cup John’s face, licking into his mouth with renewed fervour. John continued to stroke Sherlock slowly, feeling small bursts of heightened arousal whenever Sherlock made small moans into his mouth. John nipped his lower lip as he teased the head with his thumb, smearing the small beads of moisture that had formed there. He picked up his pace, stroking Sherlock firmly but quickly.

“John,” Sherlock gasped, breaking the kiss and letting his forehead rest against John’s.  

“God, do you have any idea how gorgeous you are?” John whispered in wonder. 

“Do you know… you do that out loud?” Sherlock’s eyes glittered with mirth, and John chuckled, shutting him up with a lingering kiss. He didn’t think he’d ever tire of tasting that luscious mouth, sucking on those plump lips.

He needed more. More of Sherlock, more of everything. John twisted, pulling Sherlock down by the shoulders to the bed so that he was on top. He peeled Sherlock’s pants off and threw them to the side, leaning in to kiss Sherlock’s inner thighs, flicking tongue against the soft skin there. “Do you have lube?” John asked.

“Bedside drawer,” Sherlock gasped. “But--”

“Just fingers,” John interrupted. “Is that alright?”

Sherlock’s pupils seemed to darken even further, if that was possible, as he nodded.

John grinned, nipping Sherlock’s thigh again before moving over to the bedside table. He found the small bottle, and he slicked a few fingers before dropping it on the bed. 

John kissed down his torso until he was level with Sherlock's cock, which was leaking onto his belly. John sucked on the head, teasing the frenulum with his tongue. He slid his slick fingers down under the other man's balls, and Sherlock arched off the bed, making a keening noise that made John's cock throb even harder.

He pushed one finger inside, hollowing his cheeks for more suction as he massaged it around. “John,” Sherlock gasped again. Each time he said John’s name, John felt as if he got impossibly harder. He growled, and Sherlock gasped as he felt the vibration around his cock. 

Sherlock was flushed, his body trapped between wanting to push further into John’s mouth and fucking himself on John’s fingers. John would have smiled if he could, but instead he concentrated on bobbing up and down and maintaining suction while massaging a second finger into Sherlock’s opening. He twisted his wrist, using a practiced hand to find the bundle of nerves that he knew would cause Sherlock to come undone. 

Sherlock gasped, his hands twisting into the sheets and his body arching off the bed. John pulled back to kiss just the top of Sherlock’s cock again, brushing his fingers against that spot again and again until John guessed that he was close to the edge.  

Before he could reach orgasm, John released him, pulling his fingers from Sherlock’s body.  

“John,” Sherlock panted. 

He picked up the bottle and smeared more lube onto his hand, moving on top of Sherlock again. Sherlock was breathing raggedly beneath him, his lips parted, and John leaned in to nip down Sherlock’s long pale throat. He felt territorial for some reason; he wanted to leave marks that Sherlock would see the next day and know he’d been taken by John, only him.

When Sherlock was reduced to a quivering mess, John reached down to grasp both of their cocks in one hand, and started thrusting forward. 

Sherlock reached up to grip John by the shoulders, his fingernails sinking into the skin, but John didn’t care. He had this man, this beautiful, brilliant man, arching up underneath him and making noises that verged on pornographic, and he never wanted to let go. 

John thrust up harder, and Sherlock wrapped his legs tighter around John, as if he wanted to get closer. 

“John-- I’m--” Sherlock panted, his fingers raking down John’s back. 

“Yes, god, yes,” John babbled, and Sherlock bit his lip as he finally came, spurting over their stomachs. John thrusted several more times, holding Sherlock through his orgasm and kissing him soundly, until he came himself with Sherlock’s name on his lips. 

He collapsed down onto Sherlock’s chest, momentarily unable to breathe, and Sherlock clutched John, his slim body trembling. 

His heart still pounding, John raised his head again, framing Sherlock’s head with his forearms. He brushed a curl from Sherlock’s sweaty forehead and planted a kiss in its wake. 

When he leaned back, Sherlock’s eyes were closed, but he reopened them, looking up at John with a tenderness that hit him deep in the gut.

John cleared his throat. “Flannel?” he asked hoarsely. 

“Loo.” 

John kissed him once more, slowly, and made himself get up. He felt as though his limbs weren’t quite under his control, but he made it to the bathroom next door. He cleaned himself off, wetting the cloth again and returning to Sherlock’s room. He stopped just inside the door, momentarily stunned by the sight he was greeted with. 

The lithe, pale body of Sherlock Holmes was sprawled on his bed, twisted in the bedsheets. One arm was flung over his head, head resting on his biceps. His long limbs seemed to stretch on for miles, and his dark eyelashes were fanned out over slightly-flushed cheeks. All in all, it was like some kind of Victorian tableau or Greek statue. 

Sherlock’s eyes fluttered open, and as he looked up at John his lips curled upward in just the hint of a smile.  

Making himself move, John walked over, handing Sherlock the cloth.

“Thank you,” Sherlock said, grabbing it and wiping himself off.

John shifted from one foot to another, unsure what he should do next. They hadn’t exactly expressed the parameters of what this was before John had fallen into Sherlock’s bed.Was he allowed to sleep here? Should he go up to ‘his room,’ which he hadn’t yet occupied?

The warnings that Sergeant Donovan had voiced suddenly made an unwelcome appearance, dancing around in his brain. _Sherlock doesn’t have friends. He’s a psychopath._  

At the very least, Sherlock might have thought of this as a quick shag with no strings, nothing more.

John didn’t think he could handle it if Sherlock actually asked him to leave; he was that far gone already, apparently. He’d just have to leave before he could be kicked out. 

John cleared his throat, glancing around the room. “What the bloody hell happened to my pants?” he muttered under his breath.

Sherlock glanced up at him, his eyes glittering darkly in the half-light. 

John remembered belatedly that the pants-- and his jeans-- were still in the hallway. “Bugger,” he muttered.

“What are you doing?” Sherlock asked softly, his hand clenching slightly around the flannel. 

“Trying to put on some clothes, but I think they’re still in the hall. There is a bed up in the second room, isn’t there? I’d rather not go back to my other flat at this hour, that’s for sure.” 

Sherlock didn’t move or speak for a moment, but the stunned look on his face made John’s stomach clench. John stepped back slightly, trying to will himself to leave the room.  

“John…” Sherlock started, but then he stopped himself. 

“What?” John asked quietly. _Please ask me to stay. Please_.

For a moment Sherlock looked up at him with heartbreaking vulnerability, then something shut off in his gaze, like a light going off. “Nothing,” he said, throwing the flannel to the ground and lying down with his back to John. 

John reached out a hand. “Sherlock--” 

“Goodnight, John,” Sherlock said coldly, not turning over. 

John sighed, running his hand through his hair. He had to think about this. He’d never felt anything like how he felt for Sherlock, but he couldn’t tell whether it was reciprocated. 

Hell, why not just bloody well _ask_ him? It couldn’t do any harm _._  

“Just… tell me something.” John stepped closer to the bed, the floorboards creaking under his feet.

Sherlock didn’t move or respond, but John took the fact that he hadn’t made another dismissive retort as a good sign.

“When you said that you hadn’t been looking for anything… what did you mean? What changed?”

At first John thought he’d fallen asleep, but Sherlock slowly turned over. He looked unbearably young and achingly vulnerable. It was as though all his barriers had been stripped away, and the prickly exterior that he normally projected into the world was gone. 

John automatically moved over to the bedside to brush one of the stray curls from his forehead. 

“Well?” John asked softly, his fingers lingering on Sherlock’s skin. 

Sherlock closed his eyes, leaning into John’s touch. “Then I saw you,” he whispered. His forehead crinkled slightly, as if the words were difficult for him to say.

The moment when their eyes had met at the crime scene flashed into John’s mind. In a way it had felt like some kind of cosmic shift, but John had thought it was only him. 

According to Donovan, Sherlock didn’t form attachments. He didn’t even have ‘friends’ (except for the skull in the salon) and he’d been convinced that no one would even want to live with him.  

Yet here he was-- sharing his life, his work, and his bed-- with John, after knowing him for a day.He had exhibited a tenderness that couldn’t possibly be faked, not with how close they had just been. 

Psychopath? Not even close. 

John’s breath caught in his throat, realizing how close he’d been to screwing this up.

“God,” John breathed, “I’m sorry, I didn’t--” 

Sherlock opened his eyes, and when he looked up there was a flash of pain in his gaze that John couldn’t stand. He leaned down and kissed Sherlock, deeply, his hand fisting in his hair.

“I’m sorry,” John breathed. “I was… I didn’t know if…” _If you wanted me to stay._

Sherlock sat up slowly, cupping John’s face in both hands. “Don’t,” Sherlock whispered as he brushed John’s lips with his thumb. “I meant what I said. I wasn’t looking for anything, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t find something." 

John pressed his hands against Sherlock’s, not sure what he could possibly say at this moment.

Sherlock's gaze flicked over his face searchingly. “Why you, John Watson?” he asked. It was a rhetorical question, but was as much an admission as John could have hoped for. 

John exhaled deeply, his brow furrowing. “I don’t know.” He truly didn’t. He didn’t know how they’d found this-- found each other. Their connection, both mind and body, was more intense than anything he’d ever experienced. 

Sherlock pulled him down for another soft kiss. “Come back to bed,” he whispered against John’s lips. 

John nodded, sliding back into the bed. Sherlock curled his body around John's and rested his head in the crook of John’s neck. John kissed his forehead, combing his hand through Sherlock's hair as he felt something warm blooming in his chest. He couldn’t put a name to it, not yet, but he no longer fought it. Whatever it was, it seemed that he wasn’t alone. 

They didn’t say anything else, or make any declarations; it was far too soon for that. By the time the light of dawn started to filter into the flat, though, John knew that something essential had shifted. For now, they only needed one bedroom, and that was enough.

 

**Author's Note:**

> If you would like to watch the aptly-dubbed "unaired pilot of gayness," you can find it [here](http://www.dailymotion.com/video/xtsdwg_ssherlock-2010-unaired-pilot_shortfilms).


End file.
